


and still the wolves are scattered

by cornix



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Minor Violence, Petyr is a Creep, There will be a happy ending, i feel like sansa does not yell at people enough, just after a lot of people are properly yelled at, suddenly politics!, this far at least i cannot forsee the future my friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 09:50:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9813998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cornix/pseuds/cornix
Summary: It's winter. Alayne is preparing for the joust at the Gates of the Moon when her past seems to catch up with her. But she is no longer a helpless little bird.(takes place after the Alayne excerpt from TWOW)





	1. Chapter 1

Winter is as soft as a featherbed in the Vale, and in her chambers at the Gates of the Moon, Alayne thinks that it is not so bad. A different girl was brought up on stories of winter as an endless, cold darkness and the terrors it brings far in the North. Alayne was not. She watches the soft snowfall with a smile on her lips as her maid ties the laces of her blue wool gown just under her left armpit. Her dark hair has been only half tied up and she is grateful for the warmth it provides her neck where it falls thick and long. She’d seen Ser Harrold stare at her hair when they danced the night before. _Charm him. Bewitch him. Entrance him_. Just now, however, nothing seems as unpleasant to her as just that. Her betrothed has a handsome face and strong arms, but he is far too certain of his own abilities for her liking. Especially for someone so untried. _Just some upjumped squire. Ser Lothor Brune said so_. She gave her favor to one of the Sunderlands, the middle one, Ser Tillis. She danced with him, laughed at his japes and met his eyes when she smiled, and he stuttered and blushed and accepted her favor like a blessing. Alayne smiles at the memory. _He is gallant enough_. _How simple life could have been._

It is late morning, near midday, but the Gates of the Moon is still slow and quiet after the feast. She finds Randa in the great hall, busy with overseeing the cleanup. Not wanting to get ensnared in some task, Alayne hurries on down the winding corridors of the vast keep. A skinny man in brown robes bows as she passes by, and she inclines her head in his general direction. She does not feel like talking. Not that the man would make much of a conversationalist. The Brothers of the Faith arrived in the night, offering their services for a short time in exchange for whatever leftover wool and grain they could bring back to their Isle. Petyr - _father_ \- will not grant them much, she knows, but then it is not Petyr’s decision. He _did_ give the title of Keeper to Lord Nestor to pass down his line, and it is not something he can take back now. By making the title hereditary he hopes to win House Royce’s allegiance, but he has also given them more power to oppose him, should they wish to do so. Some part of Alayne hopes Lord Nestor will rebel just to see her father’s carefully laid plans crumble to dust and disappointment.

The sept is empty save for a pair of Silent Brothers with their heads bent in prayer. Alayne walks uptowards the statues to sit at the first row. She closes her eyes. _Father. Mother. Warrior. Maiden. Smith. Crone_. A pause. _Stranger_. And nothing. No prayer will come to her mind. She repeats the names of the Seven over and over in the hopes that the words will find her. It is almost a habit in itself now, the searching, as it’s been months since she last prayed properly. Every day she comes to the sept, and every day she leaves without praying. Instead other thoughts interrupt her. _I must tell Father to whom I gave my favor._ He would want to make sure a knight carrying her ribbon did not do badly in the joust. Finally giving up her futile attempt at piety, she gets up and leaves in search of Petyr.

It is snowing again when she leaves the sept. _Winter is coming_ , she thinks stupidly. _No. Winter is upon us and still the wolves are scattered_. She shakes her head. It is no matter to her.

Father would be in his solar by now, and Alayne takes her time finding her way through the vast keep. She still has difficulties finding her way, sometimes, but her pride prevents her from asking anybody for help. She loves it here. She wants to know the corridors and passages by heart. She wants a home.

_If I could ask someone where he is they might point the way_. She turns a corner. In a shadowed alcove just ahead a man is leaned against the wall, watching the snow fall outside the glazed window across from him. The man is almost entirely obscured in the darkness, but that hulking frame can only belong to one man in the Vale.

”Oh, Ser, I’m so glad I found you! Please, if it’s no trouble - ” The man in the alcove is not Lothor Brune, she can see now. He wears the brown robes of the Brothers of the Faith, a scarf covering his face. But he is so very _large_ , almost like - 

”I’m no Ser.” His voice is a rasp that seems to vibrate against her very bones, and with it, a slow realization creeps through her mind mingled with doubt and denial. She steps closer, squints, tries to make out his eyes behind the scarf that covers most of his face. Suddenly, the man seems to stiffen.

”Fuck,” he says, and there is no doubt left in her mind. ”Little bir-”

Alayne doesn’t hesitate. She runs.

_They’ve found me. I must tell Father_. She runs and runs and runs and it’s not until she reaches the library that she remembers. _’I could keep you safe.’_ Alayne closes her eyes, steadies herself against the wall, remembers a hulking shadow and a knife. Remembers cheeks wet with tears and a song. _’No one would hurt you again’_ — no one has hurt Alayne. She is already safe, here in the Vale. Father makes sure of that. _Yes, Petyr will keep you safe as long as you let him have his way with you,_ a cruel, but terribly certain voice in her mind chimes in. _He just kisses you and touches you and pulls you down into his lap and —_ Alayne opens her eyes, tries to focus on something, anything, to keep her mind at bay. _’I’d kill them.’_ The Hound is not who he was, does not still keep to his old masters. _And even when he did, he alone refused to beat me. Sandor Clegane won’t hurt me_. No, he won’t hurt her, not knowingly, but he might _ask_ for her - for _Sansa Stark_ \- after she so thoughtlessly ran away. She must find him before he does.

Alayne spends some time unsuccessfully trying to retrace her steps back to the alcove she found him in before she gives up. He probably wouldn’t have stayed there, anyway. Wouldn’t he have come after her? Why _didn’t_ he come after her? To her surprise, Alayne finds herself a bit hurt. It’s not as if she believes he honestly _cares_ for her. He saved her from the mobs during the Bread Riots for Joff. He gave her his cloak to cover herself on Tyron’s - _her husband’s_ \- orders. _No-one ordered him to come to my chambers and offer to take me with him_. But he was drunk then, she rationalizes. Every scrap of himself he’d given her on his own accord, he’d given through a haze of Dornish Red. _What did it take for him to ask me to come with him? Five wineskins and all his pride swallowed? And I refused him_. It was not that she regretted her decision. No, had she gone with him they would both be dead in a ditch somewhere, of that she was certain. And besides, Alayne loves it here. Alayne loves it here.

She finally finds him outside, in the portico walk that leads to the baths. He seems lost, looking this way and the other. He has an odd gait, she notices, limping slightly, and he is slow. _How long has it really been?_ He has his back towards her and she hurries up behind him, silent in her soft lambswool boots, reaches up to put a hand on his shoulder.

”Clegane.”

He flinches, turns around so swiftly she almost thinks he is going to lose his balance. She can see his eyes clearer now, stormy grey, as he stares down at her.

”Seven hells,” he rasps, voice somewhat muffled by the scarf. Then, ”The fuck.”

She raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. ”Indeed.” When he makes no attempt to speak again, she continues. ”I apologize for my earlier behavior. But I _need_ to speak with you, somewhere — not here.”

His eyes narrow somewhat. ”Little bir-”

_”Please,”_ she interrupts him, urgently, pleading with her eyes. He hesitates a moment before giving a small nod of consent, barely noticeable under his large hood. She breathes a sigh of relief and starts towards the baths, motioning for him to follow. To her surprise, he does so without a fuss.

The baths are empty save for a pair of washerwomen, but Alayne still ushers the hulking non-Brother into the small, private chamber with its own pool. She hangs a piece of knotted rope on the handle outside to signal that the room is taken. Closing it firmly, she takes a deep breath and turns to face Sandor Clegane.

”Did you speak with anyone after we first saw each other?” She demands.

”I- No.” He takes off his hood and draws the scarf down under his chin, baring his face to stare down at her with a look of something like defiance. She can’t see why. She cocks her head as she regards him, taking note of how he’s changed and how she’s warped him in her… dreams. A few strands of grey now stand out in his otherwise dark hair, and he is thinner. The burnt side of his face is what it is, gruesome, but it no longer frightens her. _It looks painful,_ she thinks, surprised that she’s never noticed before. Her eyes lower to focus on the scarred corner of his mouth. _If I kiss him there, would he feel it?_ She shoves the silly thought away before it has time to take root in her mind. His expression has changed to uncertainty, and his hand stays by the scarf to fidget with the hem. _He is nothing but a nervous boy. How odd_.

”Good,” she says with a nod, feeling somewhat like a tutor praising her fidgeting pupil. ”So. A Brother of the Faith.” She looks him up and down, shamelessly. ”I did wonder what had become of you, but would not in a lifetime have guessed you’d choose a life of piety.”

”Didn’t take any vows,” he rasps. ”But I found some peace. Now will you tell me what the fuck is going on? Like what is _Sansa fucking S-_ ”

”My name,” she interrupts him calmly, ”is Alayne Stone, and you will refer to me as such if you want us both to keep our heads.”

”Alayne St-” He stares down at her. ”The pretty bastard they spoke of in the stables. _Littlefucker’s_ bastard. That’s _you?_ All this time, you’ve been here, with him?” He laughs, a sharp bark of a sound that gives her no joy to hear. ”Right under my bloody nose, all along, he’s had you in his slimy fucking claws-”

”Petyr _saved_ me when-”

_”Piss on that!”_ He does not look angry, not quite, but his outburst makes her flinch all the same. He notices, but instead mocking her as she expects him to, he looks down on the ground.

”You’re different,” she says.

”So’re you,” he answers, still not looking up.

”Nevertheless, I need your word that you will tell no-one of my identity.”

”No-one’s going to _ask_ me,” he rasps. ”But I won’t.”

”Thank you. Now, my father is expecting me and I must not make him wait. If you wish to speak more, we should do so later, in a less conspicuous manner. If it’s no trouble, would you mind waiting a little while before you leave after me? I can’t risk anyone seeing me leave the baths with a man, even if he is a Brother of the Faith.” She starts moving towards the door.

”Didn’t expect the little bird to still care so much for propriety. Wedded and bedded, and living with Littlefinger for all this time…”

A wave of cold rises in her chest at his words. _He knows about Tyrion? And this is what he thinks of me?_ She turns back to face him and fixes him with a steely glare.

”It would seem you do not know as much about me as you would like to think, _ser_. If you excuse me, I must be on my way.” With that, she practically storms out of the baths and is grateful that no-one can see her when her face scrunches up and she tries her hardest not to cry. She is not very successful, and when she finally finds her way to Petyr’s solar, her eyes are red and swollen.

Littlefinger sits on the edge of his desk, poring over various documents. His doublet is of dark blue silk, a mockingbird skillfully embroidered on his chest. He looks up at her entrance, his eyebrows furrowing into a frown of concern.

”What’s happened, sweetling? Are you hurt?”

”No-one’s hurt me. Are we alone?” He nods. She stands helplessly in the middle of the room and tries to think of something to say. ”I gave my favor to Ser Tillis.”

”Ser Tillis Sunderland? He’s a decent lad. Not very bright, but that’s neither here nor there. Did he not accept it?”

”Oh, yes, he accepted. Gladly. That’s not…”

Petyr sighs. He puts down his documents and saunters over to her, puts his hands around her shoulders. ”Alayne, my sweet, I am a very busy man. If you have something to say, say it.”

Alayne folds her hands and looks down demurely. ”I’m very sorry, father. I did not mean to waste your time. It’s just… I’m a bastard. People don’t think very highly of me, or rather, of my… virtue.”

She imagines that Petyr’s eyes soften before he draws her to his chest. ”Oh, Alayne. You should not let that bother you. Think of how they’ll all eat their words on your wedding day, when we reveal your secret.”

”But that’s just it!” She gently pushes his chest so that she can meet his gaze. ”After all that’s happened, will they truly think better of- of _her?”_ This time she allows the tears to flow freely, knowing how much she looks like her mother even with her hair darkened, and knowing his very soft spot for her Tully blue eyes. ”She’s married once already — and to the Imp! She stands accused of treason, of murdering the king. And all this time, she’s been hidden away here, with - ” she feels a very appropriate blush creep into her cheeks, ” - with you.”

She does not need to imagine the softness when Petyr looks at her now. ”When the time comes, sweetling, they’ll have no reason to doubt. Why would they think such things of a highborn lady?”

_But it’s fully reasonable that they think it of me as a bastard?_ Alayne keeps her indignation in check. She even adds a little quivering to her lower lip. ”Queen Cercei is a highborn lady,” she almost whispers. Word of the accusations against Cercei has reached even the sheltered Vale.

Petyr gives a small laugh. ”No-one in their right mind would _ever_ compare you to that woman, my sweet. And truly, you should not let these thoughts trouble you. They will love you. Every single one of them. Half of them already do. Look at Lord Nestor’s daughter, she practically dotes on you.” He smiles down at her, and she carefully smiles back. ”As for your marriage to the Imp… That could have been prevented. I tried, I really did, but that Tywin thought me far too lowborn for a maid like you.”

Something turns to stone in her throat. ”I… I don’t understand, father.”

”Oh, didn’t I tell you before? When the Lannisters plotted to have you married before you were spirited off to Highgarden, I offered to do the honors. They refused, naturally. Pity, is it not?”

Alayne forces herself to swallow and produce something like a regretful smile. ”I didn’t know. Thank you, for trying, my lord.”

Petyr finally lets go of her shoulders. ”For all the good it did. Now, give your father a kiss, I must return to work.”

Purposefully naïve, she gives him a small peck on the cheek before she hurries out of the room. She closes the door behind her and takes a deep breath. _The Lannisters knew about Highgarden? About Willas Tyrell?_ Of course. Ser Dontos had been Petyr’s man all along, of course he would have told him. _I could have been Lady Tyrell by now, and not some bastard comforting a shaking boy at night. ’Be grateful you were spared’_ , that’s what Petyr said. Spared from a kind husband and a comfortable life. All because he had thought he could steal her for himself. Surely, he can’t have meant for her to know? It’s not like Littlefinger to let things slip by accident.  She shakes her head. It is all too confusing.

Through the windows in the corridor, she can hear sounds from the bailey, of the workers preparing for the tourney. Trying to clear her mind, Alayne sets out to find her friend Mya Stone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a bit longer than expected, and in the end I had to split this chapter in two. I'm not very happy with this one, but it's necessary for the plot, so there. I swear this was supposed to be a oneshot centered around one dialogue, I don't know what happened. If I'd known from the beginning how long it would turn out I would never have written it in present tense. Oh, well. Here's chapter two. Enjoy.

”Is he handsome?”

”Not particularly.”

”But he’s kind?”

”In the ways he knows how, I suppose.”

”Oh, you’re not giving me _anything!”_ Mya throws her head back in mock woefulness. She and Alayne are sitting in the hayloft sharing a basket of apples. Mya’s wearing breeches as usual, and Alayne surprises herself by feeling a bit envious. Skirts are lovely in their way, but how much simpler life would be if she could ride astride on her horse!

”I told you I knew him once. The rest is entirely your fabrication.” In an attempt to ease her mind, Alayne has told Mya what little she can of her encounter with Sandor Clegane. Only, in this version, he is a man she knew from Gulltown, and her distress comes entirely from reliving old memories. He could be part of any knight’s retinue. In Mya’s version, however, he is Alayne’s former lover who used to sneak in to meet her in the motherhouse and who had been heartbroken when she’d left to find her real father. This romantic version somewhat unsettles Alayne.

”If you’d tell me more about it, I wouldn't have to make things up!”

”Well, I-” Alayne is interrupted by the sound of bells ringing from the bailey. ”-I must go change for the tourney!” She hastily gets up and brushes hay from her wool dress. ”We’ll speak more later.”

”And you’ll tell me _everything_ then!” Mya shouts after her, but Alayne is already climbing down the ladder.

 

_Perhaps it was a mistake to tell Mya_ , Alayne thinks as her maid is braiding ribbons in her hair. Her dark curls have been pinned up like a crown around her head, and though it looks lovely, Alayne worries how it will look after she’s pulled her hood over it against the cold winds. _Perhaps I’m digging myself an early grave by sharing my troubles_. Who does Petyr share his troubles with? Probably no-one. _’Trust no-one but yourself, Alayne,_ ’ he told her long ago. It seems a dreadfully lonely life to lead, that of a player.

”Lovely. You’re all done, dear.” Nella, her maid, gives Alayne’s shoulder a small pat and moves to tidy up around the chamber. Alayne considers her reflection in the polished mirror. Yes, she is lovely. Perhaps not as lovely as she would like to be, perhaps not possessing the incandescent beauty she’s heard of in the songs, the kind that starts wars and lays empires to ruin, but lovely nonetheless. Alayne wonders what they looked like, Jonquil, Daeryssa, Shella and all the others. Is such beauty no longer born into this world? She knows old drunk Robert Baratheon loved her Aunt Lyanna enough to end an almost 300-year old dynasty to avenge her. She must have been more beautiful even than Queen Cercei. _Or perhaps, she was no more lovely than me. Perhaps they were all just lovely women who had the tragic misfortune to be loved by men with swords and armies._ Alayne shakes her head. This is not the time for such gloomy thoughts. Soon the first rounds of the tourney will start, and she must accompany Lord Robert down to the lists.

”You didn’t eat with me this morning. You didn’t come.” Lord Robert Arryn pouts up at her when she enters his chambers.

”I did not know I was invited.”

”That’s not the _point_. The point is I _waited_ for you and you didn’t come! You ate with me yesterday, and read to me.” He looks on the verge of tears.

”There, my Sweetrobin, I’m sorry. Will you let me walk with you down to the tourney? And I’ll eat with you tomorrow, and read you stories.”

”You have to _promise_.” Alayne does promise. The little lord is wearing blue and white today, the colours of House Arryn, and Alayne wonders if Petyr knows, if he’ll still wear his blue silk doublet at the tourney. Lord Robert will no doubt take offense if he does.

Randa joins them on their way down to the bailey. Alayne’s Sweetrobin came along without almost any fuss, holding her hand, and it’s in those moments that she can look down on his round face and long, tumbling hair with true affection. She lets go of his hand as soon as they’re outside, however, and walks behind him with Randa. The sky has cleared into a bright blue, and the stands are filled with expectant spectators. They make their way to the elevated platform set up for the little lord and his retinue. The grandstand is really no place for a bastard, but Lord Robert insisted. Petyr is already awaiting them, looking rather small in the company of lord Nestor Royce and Ser Lothor Brune. Alayne notes with some relief that he is wearing green and silver. The crowd cheers and claps as they ascend the grandstand, and Alayne quickly scans the crowd for brown robes. _Don’t be stupid_ , she tells herself. _He’s found his peace, leave him be_. 

Lord Robert excitedly tugs at her sleeve, and her attention is brought to the knights lining up below them. For a moment it seems not all mounted knights could possibly fit within the lists, but by some miracle they do. The herald, she can’t recall his name, a skinny young man with red hair, reads the name of every competitor from his scroll, and the crowd cheers in turn. Alayne soon stops listening as the list of four-and-sixty names and titles goes on and on, but she does take note of Ser Harrold. He’s in the very first row, just beneath the grandstand, his armor shining in the sunlight. _Such fine armor, and not a scratch on it_. He flashes a brilliant smile at her, dimples in his cheeks, and without thinking she returns it. Harrold Hardyng won’t win wings today. Petyr will make sure of it. Three years is a far too long engagement for whatever plans he has for her. And so Alayne sits down on her cushioned seat to watch.

Randa had it right. The Sistermen _are_ useless in the joust. All three Sunderlands are unhorsed in their first tilts. Alayne looks regretfully at her blue ribbon where it lays in the dust. Ser Tillis actually reaches for it before he scrambles to his feet. _Unharmed, at least_. She is grateful for that. He seems a pleasant man, unlike the knight who unhorsed him. Lyn Corbray is doing far better in this tourney than she would like. He is no doubt capable of protecting the little lord, but to have him and his confusing allegiance around at all times would make her head spin. _There is no-one here who could pay him as well as Petyr does, though_. But then, two sides to serve would also mean two incomes. Lyn is dangerous, of that she is certain.

Roland Waynwood defeats Uther Shett. Ser Harrold skillfully unhorses Lymond Lynderly, but is soon defeated by Ben Coldwater. Poor Wallace Waynwood is carried out on a stretcher. Edmund Breakstone defeats some Upcliff knight. Alayne soon loses interest in the jousting and focuses instead on her cup of hot mulled wine. Lord Robert chats excitedly about the joust, and she only nods and smiles.

While the jousting knights withdraw to their pavilions to prepare for the final rounds, the melee is held. Alayne could never make sense of free-for-all melees. It’s all chaos and confusion until suddenly there is one man standing and everybody cheers. Her attention is drawn, however, when a mystery knight enters. The knight is tall, wearing grey armor and a shield with so many hacks and slashes in it that the motif is impossible to make out. It’s his sword, though, that catches her eye. Rippled with black and red, the blade shines impossibly bright in the sunlight. _Valyrian steel_ , Alayne thinks. _He can’t afford a proper shield, and yet he wields a Valyrian blade_. The mystery knight’s height gives him a long reach, and he possesses a strength and skill few others match. Alayne’s heart does a little flutter. _Don’t be stupid,_ she tells herself for the second time that afternoon. _The Hound could never afford a sword like that_. And when the dust settles and the clamoring dies down, it is, of course, the mystery knight who is still standing. The crowd cheers, and the knight is slow at raising his sword in victory. _He seems more confused than proud_ , Alayne thinks. While the knight accepts his price, still not removing his helmet, surgeons swarm the field behind him to carry out the wounded. A young squire screams as he is lifted onto a stretcher, but the sound is drowned out by the cheering crowd. Alayne wonders if any of the men being hauled from the field are dead. _They die, and the crowd cheers_. She looks down at the valyrian steel in the knight’s hand. _The head tumbles to the ground, the body_ twitches _, the crowd cheers_. She feels sick. Taking a deep breath, she turns to Sweetrobin. 

”My lord, may I take my leave for a bit? All this excitement has made me dizzy.”

Alayne fears that he will hold her at the grandstand, but with a childish gravity, he acquiesces. She tries her hardest not to run down the steps and away, and somehow manages to keep her head held high as long as she is within sight of the crowd. Well behind the stands, Alayne leans against the wooden structure and closes her eyes. When she is ready, she walks inside. The corridors are all but empty. Save for the kitchen staff who are busy preparing for tonight’s feast, most of the servants are in the stands watching the tourney.

She finds him before she knows she is looking. Once again in the portico walk, he sits on a bench with his leg stretched out in the sun that still manages to produce some warmth. Alayne approaches him carefully, not sure on which terms they parted earlier. When she thinks on it, she is… not angry, no, but irritated. Annoyed that he would make assumptions. She sits down beside him on the bench, and he jumps slightly, as if he hasn’t heard her approach.

”I was surprised when I didn’t see you in the stands.”

”Had enough of tourneys.” He doesn’t look at her, so she follows suit and they both look out at the winter-brown herb garden.

”There was a tall knight in the melee. Grey armor. I thought it might be you, at first. There’s a handsome bag of gold you could’ve brought back to your Isle.”

In the corner of her eye, she can see him frown. ”…Should have thought of that sooner, then.”

She smiles. ”Yes. Well, there’ll be another feast tonight, and even you and your Brothers will be welcome below the salt.”

”Isn’t that gracious of you. Will you bestow me with a nod from the high table?”

”It’s not _my_ feast. And I’m a bastard. I’ll not sit on the dais.”

”Ah. I suppose I owe my thanks to your two-faced worm of a _father_ , then.”

Something in his tone makes her defensive despite herself. ”Petyr has treated me very well,” she lies.

This is when he loses his temper. ”Oh, has he?” He’s turned to her, grey eyes turned cold and cruel. ”Funny how _he’s_ your father after he stabbed your first one in the back.”

Suddenly, Alayne can’t feel her face. ”What?”

He stills, eyes widen slightly. ”You didn’t know?”

”Know what?”

He looks around. ”This is no conversation for this place.”

Alayne shoots a frantic glance up the portico. How did she forget herself so easily? It seems the thought of her father - of _Lord Eddard Stark_ \- has brought down her defences, all caused by the glimmering of Valyrian steel. This will not do. Alayne has not had her skin turn from porcelain, to ivory, to steel, to fragile shattered glass. She stands up, perhaps too abruptly, and clutches her hands in front of her to stop the shaking.

”I must go back to the tourney. Sweetrobin doesn’t like it when I leave.”

He looks surprised but does not object.

”We will speak later, though,” she says, ”after the feast. I’ll signal you and we’ll meet in the west corridor, the one that leads to Teora’s Tower.”

”The little bird is planning clandestine meetings now, is she?” He looks amused.

Alayne narrows her eyes at him. ”The little bird has no choice.” With that, she turns on her heel and leaves him.

The finale of the joust is all but done when she arrives back at the grandstand. The spectators on the left side have to shield themselves from the splinters of Lyn Corbray’s lance as it smashes against Roland Waynwood’s shield. This would grant Ser Lyn victory, however, Ser Roland manages to hit Ser Lyn’s pauldron, unbalancing him and ultimately causing him to fall off his horse in a rather unimpressive manner. The crowd cheers yet again, easily pleased. Lord Robert is practically jumping up and down next to Alayne. Ser Roland is declared the victor of the tourney, but there are seven more whom have earned wings. Lyn Corbray, Ben Coldwater, Garrel Templeton, Carth Pryor, Elras Donniger, Jon Redfort, and Eustace Hunter all line up behind Ser Roland before the grandstand. Alayne swallows. Out of the eight knights, four have ties to the Lords Declarant and one is, well, Lyn Corbray. She wonders if this was all rigged, and by whom. It might benefit Petyr to have relatives of his enemies so close by, but it might also be the enemies themselves who’ve put them by Lord Robert’s side. _Is Sweetrobin safe with a guard like this?_ He looks pleased, at least, proudly reciting the words they’ve practiced in the previous days. Alayne meets Ser Roland’s eyes by accident, and his long face lights up with something like mischief, an odd look in the face of a grown knight. Before she knows it, he’s lowered his lance to put a wreath of white flowers in her lap.

_Queen of love and beauty. How could I forget?_ The thought that one would be named had not even crossed her mind. That _she_ is named, and by Ser Roland of all people, comes as a surprise. This must be some jape between him and his cousin, her betrothed, but the flowers shine beautifully against her dark hair, and so she puts it on and pretends not to mind. She shoots a glance at Petyr. He pretends not to notice.

It is not until the feast that she realizes the complications of being crowned Queen of Love and Beauty. She is seated at the high table. _How will I signal him? Too many eyes are drawn up here_. She shoots a desperate glance around. She can just make out several shapes in brown robes at the furthest end of the hall. _Can Sandor even see me from there?_ Sandor. When did he transform from the Hound, to Sandor Clegane, to just Sandor? _Since you turned bastard with no need for propriety_.

This feast is a simpler one than the night before, with only twenty dishes and no lemon cake. Alayne politely makes conversation with Ben Coldwater to her left and wishes for the night to be over. Petyr clearly wants to speak with her, she sees him in the corner of her eye trying to catch her attention with subtle hand gestures. She pretends not to notice. He will be cross with her later, but she can always blame the wine and excitement. Her skin prickles and crawls with the mere knowledge that he sits by the same table as her. It is usually not so bad. Usually, her need of his protection and knowledge has outweighed the distaste she feels whenever he touches her, but no more. She is not surprised that he was somehow involved in the plot that cost Lord Eddard Stark his life, more so that she has not realized it on her own. It should be obvious. The man that plans to slowly murder a child to usurp his power would have no qualms about throwing the King’s Hand to the lions. _No, I will not speak with you alone, father. Not tonight_. There is a plan forming in her mind that is at once frightening and thrilling. It’s simple, but then all the best ones are.

When the dance begins she finally has her reason to move closer to the lower tables. All she needs now is an opportunity to escape. She is handed from Redfort, to Coldwater, to Waynwood, to Pryor but notes that Ser Harrold is very pointedly Not Asking her to dance. He sits sulking in a corner, nursing a mug of ale. Alayne catches Randa’s eye over the shoulder of Ser Edmund Breakstone and indicates the corner where Harry is sulking. Randa doesn’t hesitate, and Alayne is grateful. If all goes according to plan, she will never have to charm that man again.

She slips from Ser Edmund’s grasp with some flimsy excuse, straightens the wreath around her hair and walks slowly past the lower tables. Sandor is sitting at the end of the table, either by chance or to make it easier to sneak away without causing suspicion. She catches his eye and pointedly keeps walking towards the west corridor. Behind her, she can hear the shuffling of him getting to his feet. He is so slow, why is he so slow? Alayne fleetingly wonders what happened to his leg. She doesn’t look back, and is strangely proud of herself. Even in the corridor, when the sound of music from the hall abates with every step, she keeps walking, hearing his heavy footsteps behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and your kind words of encouragement, gosh. I hope the story will live up to your expectations :) Please let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short update! Let's get to the yelling, shall we?

Alayne closes the door behind Sandor. She stays by it and watches nervously as he looks around, taking in the room. The scorn, when it comes, is inevitable.

”You brought me to your chambers, little bird?”

_”My chambers_ seemed to do at the Blackwater,” she snaps, and instantly regrets it. He turns rigid, looks down in the floor. ”That was uncalled for. I’m sorry.”

He says nothing.

”I needed a private place for us to talk. I have a… _reputation_. No-one will expect me to bring a man in here.” She feels some heat creep into her cheeks, but after that morning, she is slightly proud to reveal how she’s considered a prude by many in the Vale, If only to prove him wrong. She has never given anyone cause to believe she would do anything improper. ”I need your help.”

”Do you, now.”

There is some disappointment at his words. She tries to ignore it. ”I _can_ pay you, if that’s what you want. All I need is a set of brown robes and the company of your Brothers.”

”You plan to fly away? All on your own?” He stares at her, incredulous. ”You won’t survive a day out there.”

”Which is why I _need your help_. If I could leave unnoticed, perhaps I could hide on your Isle, just for a while? I’ll pay. I’ll _work_.”

He scoffs. ”Why would you leave a castle for drudgery on a muddy Isle? You’ve got all this…” he looks around, picks up a vial of fragrant oil from her vanity, ”…this _stuff!_ You’ve got feasts, and knights putting wreaths on your pretty head. Out there it’s shit and mud and snow. Believe me, San-”

_”Alayne.” I can’t let her out yet, I need to be brave. I need Alayne_. He hesitates. _He is so different._

”-little bird.” Unsteady, large hands puts the vial back down on the vanity. He is drunk, she realizes, unsure of what to do with this information.

”You offered, once. To take me with you.”

”I was drunk.”

”You were always drunk.” She knows he is only protecting himself. She _knows_ it wasn’t only Dornish Red that made him come to her chambers that night. Alayne is older. She knows better, now, and won’t be dissuaded by the twitching in the burnt corner of his mouth or his tense jaw. And she is desperate. Even if she does marry Harry, how does that give Petyr any more power? He has not told her all of his plan, and she knows she is not coming out of this in one piece. She reaches out a hand, touches Sandor’s shoulder. ”Ask me. I’ll come with you, this time.”

Sandor visibly flinches. His eyes, when they meet hers, are wide with fear. ”Best stay in your cage. Find some husband to keep you safe.”

_”You_ could keep me safe.” She blames the wine when she brings up both hands to cup his face, feels the stubble on one side and the gnarly burns on the other. For a second, he meets her eyes, strained, as if allowing himself to indulge before he pulls away forcefully.

”I don’t know what tricks Petyr has taught you, but don’t try them on an old dog. Don’t be cruel.”

Alayne lets her arms fall to her sides. She is at once disappointed at the broken contact and surprised at his honesty. _More scraps offered by Dornish Red_. He starts pacing, urgently, like some animal trapped, and she doesn’t know how to fix this before he’s angry.

”Don’t bring Petyr into this,” she says. ”I’m trying to be honest with you. Please, Sandor, listen to me. I’ve thought of you - _dreamt_ of you - and…” Something in his eyes makes her fall silent.

He looks at her intently, now, some haze forming in his eyes that grows to twist his features in a mask of fury. With two swift strides he is on her, grabbing her painfully by her upper arms and with seemingly no effort lifts her off the ground.

”Are you _mad?”_ he shouts, so close that she can feel his wine-drenched breath on her face. ”After all this time, you’re still nothing more than some pretty little _child_ with a head full of pretty little songs.”

Hot tears sting Alayne’s eyes, of hurt, but even more than that, of _anger_. White hot and blinding it fills her as Sandor spits out every insult that has been ringing in her head for the past years. Silly child, fool, naïve little girl, _stupid_. Sandor, seemingly oblivious to Sansa’s anger, is still shouting.

”Did you think I’d changed? Did you think I’d magically turned into one of those flowery knights you love so much, little bird? Did you think - ”

Alayne has had enough. ”Shut up,” she says, with a deadly quiet voice. To her surprise, he does. His eyes are still wide and wild, but his mouth is snapped shut. ”Put me down.” Once more, he complies. She rubs her arms where he’s squeezed them, and he takes a step back, confusion shining out of his features. Sansa takes a deep breath and wills her body to be calm before she fixes his eyes with hers.

”How dare you?” she says. ”How _dare_ you call me a child and still look at me the way you do?”

Sandor has no answer to that. He still stares, looking rather stupid, she thinks.

”Do you honestly think I’m stupid? Did you honestly think I was, back then?” _Now_ he averts his eyes, something like shame creeping into his face. ”I was - _am_ \- young, but I’m no fool. I was a child, but I understood some of it, even as you did your best to hide behind that _abhorrent_ demeanor. You said you never lied, but you did, you lied for me on Joff’s nameday. You used to mock me for not daring to look at you, and yet, when I was stripped in front of the whole court, it was _you_ who looked away. You never beat me, and you looked at me like a _begging dog_ when I screamed.” She hears her own voice, cruel and harsh, and she barely recognizes it. ”You act like you’re this big cruel killer, but you _helped_ me. You never hurt me. And after you left, well, there was Tyrion.” Some bitterness has unbidden crept into her voice, and Sandor, of course, misunderstands it.

He starts to move closer again, the confusion and shame easily replaced by that same old rage. ”If that _imp_ did _anything_ \- ”

”You’d what?” she interjects sharply. ”Kill him? I’m afraid you’re a bit late for that. And for the record, no, Tyrion never hurt me. Which is more than I can say for you,” she says pointedly, rubbing her shoulders where his grip will surely leave bruises. She straightens her back.

”You _left._ You, of all people, have no right to judge me for what I’ve had to do to get out. So, answer me: do you truly think I’m stupid?” She is very close to him now, so close she has to crane her neck to meet his eyes. _He is taller by far than Petyr, and yet he doesn't frighten me like he does_ , she thinks, oddly enough.

”No,” is all Sandor says.

”Do you honestly think of me as a child, still? Because if you do, you should be very, very ashamed of yourself.”

Sandor opens his mouth, and closes it again. His entire demeanor is quite changed from before. The anger has left him, his shoulders slouches and he is positively squirming under her gaze. They stand like that for a while, staring at each other, before she decides she's had enough. ”Keep thinking of an answer to that, I think you’ll find I’m not the fool here.”

He might have had an answer to that, but they are interrupted by an insistent knock on her door.

”Alayne! Alayne, open the door!” It’s Randa. Before Alayne can collect herself enough to form an answer, her friend has thrown the door open and rushed in.

Randa throws a quick, confused glance at Sandor, but immediately turns back to Alayne. ”Oh, Alayne, I don’t know what to do! It’s the Lords Declarant, they’ve imprisoned Petyr. They’re on their way right now, they’re coming for you!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was supposed to be part of chapter 2, but I felt it needed to stand on its own. Thank you all for reading, and for your encouragement!


	4. Chapter 4

Alayne paces her chambers in her nightshift. It’s been two days. Mya came by, yesterday, but otherwise she’s alone. Not even Nella has been allowed inside. Alayne should be grateful, she knows, to still have the comfort of her chambers. Petyr is in a dungeon cell. At least last she heard. Mya said she’ll be brought before the Lords Declarant today. She’s not sure what she is being accused of, not really. Plotting to murder Lord Robert, probably. _Oh, Sweetrobin, have mercy on me_. Her gaze settles on her reflection in the mirror on her vanity table. She looks dreadful. Dark circles under her eyes, hair tangled even though she’s tried to keep it braided. Her eyes are red and puffy from hours of crying in fear. She’s glad Sandor can’t see her like this. They took him away from her, hauled him out of her room before any of them had the chance to react. Bronze Yohn Royce had walked into her room as if he had the right to, his guards searching her chambers, tearing through her chests and drawers. The vial of fragrant oil Sandor had waved around had fallen to the floor and shattered. Alayne is thankful Sandor was already out of her chambers when they pulled out the stained white cloak she kept neatly folded at the very bottom of her chest. Yohn Royce gave her an odd look, then, and took it with him when he left. _Well, that’ll make for some embarrassment_. But what would they make of it? There was hardly any evidence left it had once been a Kingsguard cloak, and how would a bastard from Gulltown have come by it?

_They might execute the bastard all the same, evidence or no_. Alayne considers her reflection. Is this how she’ll die? Disgraced, in hiding, to be tossed in an unmarked grave? She is glad they are no longer in the Eyrie, at least. She’d rather face the executioner’s block than the vast nothingness beneath the Moon Door. Granted, she’d rather not die at all, but if that is what’s coming, she’d prefer to do so with dignity. Nodding to herself, Alayne walks over to the door of her chamber and starts banging on it until the guard outside can’t ignore her anymore.

—

She is surprised when they actually bring up a bath for her. She is even more surprised that it’s warm. Testing the water with her hands, a thought occurs to her, and turns to the maids that are quickly exiting her prison.

”Nella!” The maid turns around, meets Alayne’s eyes with a look of something like shame in them. ”Nella, please, would you bring me chamomile and rosemary for my bath?” She knows she is pushing the limits, but Nella throws a quick glance at the guard outside and then back to Alayne. A nod. The door closes behind her.

—

Alayne carefully rinses her hair with the herbs, feeling a twinge of sorrow as the dark dye is washed out of her soon auburn locks. She puts on a grey dress with inlays of blue velvet gores and pins her hair half up with an elaborate silver hair clasp. The woman in the mirror looks back at her, somewhat uncertain, and Alayne sighs. _You must be brave, Sansa_ , she thinks. _You must be brave this time, or I won’t let you out again_. 

When the knock comes, Sansa Stark straightens her back and walks out of her chambers with her head held high.

—

Ben Coldwater does a double take when she exits, stares at her hair in confusion. She politely greets him and the other guard she does not recognize, and walks in front of them to her judgement. With the two knights behind her, walking down the corridors, she can almost imagine the walls are made from red stone, the men behind her brutes willing to beat her at command. But she is older now, and will not cower. Some part of her never expected to survive this war. She is glad she is not in King’s Landing, that Ben Coldwater is an honorable man and not Meryn Trant. She is glad she won’t be beaten to death on the throne room floor.

Deep in thought, Sansa realizes later than she ought to that they are not heading towards the Great Hall.

”Pardon me, ser, are we not going to the Hall?”

”We were ordered to escort you to Lord Nestor’s solar, my lady.”

_My lady_. Her Sweetrobin’s Winged Knights are nothing like Joff’s Kingsguard, of that she is certain. Still, she can’t make sense of the situation. Do they want to dispose of her quietly? Surely, they’ll change their minds when they learn of her true identity. _If only they’ll believe me. If not_ … Sansa closes her eyes. _I pleaded for my father’s life. I’ll not waste time pleading for my own_. In front of the great oak door, she takes a deep breath. The guards push open the door, and, schooling her features, head held high, Sansa enters the solar.

Lord Nestor sits at his table, surrounded by all the Lords Declarant. Yohn Royce, Anya Waynwood, Gilwood Hunter, Horton Redfort, Bender Belmore, and Symond Templeton all wear grave expressions as they look at her. Sansa stands in front of the table, in the middle of the room, and takes a careful look around. Lord Robert is nowhere to be seen. At the right side wall sits Myranda Royce, Harrold Hardyng, and, to her surprise, Lothor Brune. To her left is Petyr. He wears a haggard look on his face, clothes filthy, iron around his wrists. But it’s not the sight of Littlefinger that makes her heart skip a beat. Beside him, looking every bit as worn and filthy as the aforementioned, sits Sandor Clegane. There is no scarf to cover the ruin of his face. Sansa’s heart aches as she sees the dirt on his face, his empty eyes. For a second, their eyes meet, and she is certain that when his gaze flickers to her hair, the burnt corner of his mouth twitches.

”My lady.” Lord Nestor rises from his seat, and so does the other lords at the table. Sansa is surprised she is shown this courtesy. Lothor Brune rises from his seat and walks over to stand beside her. _He is Petyr’s man. Why is he not in chains?_

”My lords,” he says, ”my ladies. The lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

There is an audible gasp. Sansa realizes it comes from herself. Petyr tries to rise from his seat, but is pushed down again by Jon Redfort. On the opposite side of the room, Harry is gaping at her. Lady Anya wears a similar expression, making her face even longer than it already is. The Royce’s are the only ones in the room seemingly unaffected by this announcement. Lord Nestor even offers her a benign smile.

”My lady Sansa,” he says. ”It is our honor to have you here as a guest, even in these regrettable circumstances. I trust you have been well treated?”

”I…” Sansa trails off. ”Beg pardon, my lord, I was under the impression I was to undergo a trial.”

Glances are exchanged around the table. Judging from Lady Anya’s face, she has been brought here under the same impression. The Lords Declarant seem frozen by uncertainty, and it is Myranda who steps forward.

”We deeply apologize for your confinement, Al- Lady Sansa, but some degree of discretion was required. Not many know of your identity, and for your safety, we needed to keep up the impression you were Petyr Baelish’s natural daughter.”

”You mean to say you _knew_ of my identity?”

”Why would a maid from Gulltown know the name of Eddard Stark’s bastard?” Randa smiles.

Yohn Royce speaks up. ”I did recognize you, my lady, but my suspicions were not confirmed until Myranda told me of hers. And there was some... evidence, in your chambers.”

_The cloak._ Sansa hesitates. ”Why am I here?”

Lord Nestor shifts uncomfortably. ”We still need to discern the degree of your involvement in the plans of Petyr Baelish, my lady. Ser Lothor assures us you were brought to the Vale under false pretenses, brought along as a pawn in Littlefinger’s games.”

”That is correct. I was told we were going North, until we arrived at the Fingers.”

Randa walks over, lays a hand on Sansa’s forearm. ”Dear Sansa, we do not wish for any disgrace upon your name, but you must tell us, has Littlefinger hurt you?” She stresses the word ”hurt” so that there is no doubt in Sansa’s mind as to what she means.

A wave of uneasiness rises in Sansa’s chest. She turns to Petyr, who is signing with his left hand. They’ve practiced gestures for hours in his solar, in case of a situation like this. _”We’ll need to be invincible, sweetling. Even if our endgame is changed.”_ Sansa pretends not to see. _He should have told me of his endgame if he wanted me to play along_. His fingers move frantically, his eyes wide and wild. She’s never seen him so undone. It’s almost enough to make her feel sorry for him, until she remembers what he’s done with those hands.

”I am still a maid, if that’s what you’re asking.” She manages to keep her back straight even as shame, hot and red, creeps across her cheeks. ”But he’s done… things. Other things.” She never takes her eyes from Petyr. ”Petyr Baelish took me from King’s Landing with false promises, kept me under the guise of his daughter all while he frightened me with his ever more aggressive advances. He even planned to wed me, once. It seems possible he was planning an accident for both Lord Robert and Ser Harrold all along.”

Petyr struggles against both his chains and Jon Redfort, all in vain. ”You _lying,_ scheming little-”

It’s Sandor who silences him this time, by hitting Petyr over the head with his chained hands. It earns him a swift beating from Garrel Templeton. Sansa uses all her willpower not to attack Garrel herself, tooth and nail. She is still not certain her standing is secure.

”My lords, what is this man doing here?” She gestures towards Sandor, who is bleeding from his forehead.

”Ah, yes,” Lord Nestor says. ”We wanted to wait for you to judge the Lannister Hound. He might have been cleared from the crimes at Saltpans, but to break into a lady’s chambers… What would you have us do to him?”

_They think Sandor broke into my chambers?_ ”Sandor Clegane has committed no crimes against me. I invited him into my chambers.”

Silence falls in the room. Sandor shifts in his seat.

”Little bird…”

”He has not been the Lannister’s Hound since he offered to save me during the Battle of the Blackwater. I brought him to my chambers because it was the only place I deemed safe for us to talk. I wanted his help to escape Lord Baelish.” She feels unnaturally warm, and tries her hardest not to fidget under the stern gazes of the Lords Declarant. Only the gentle smile from Randa and the comforting presence of Ser Lothor at her side keeps her from turning to run. That, and the fact that if she does, Sandor Clegane is likely to be a head shorter before this day is over.

They question her for what feels like hours. The straight-backed bravado she entered with is soon replaced by fatigue as the truths start spilling out of her mouth. Lysa’s death, the murder of Jon Arryn, Willas Tyrell, Ser Dontos, her hairnet… This is not how Petyr taught her to play. There are no skillfully wrought lies or seeds planted by her tired words. _No, Petyr, I will destroy you with nothing but the truth_.

”I had but one friend in King’s Landing,” she says. ”Only one person who helped me with no thought to use me as a pawn in some grasp to power. Sandor Clegane never hurt me.”

She tells them of the bread riots, of the Kingsguard cloak around her in the courtroom. Sansa even tells them of the Blackwater, but without the wine or the knife or the kiss. The Lords Declarant hear of a tall warrior offering to save her from certain ruin at the hands of either side of the war, and how her foolish fears prevented her from accepting. They hear of how he did not try to convince her otherwise with lies or force, but accepted her decision and left. Sometime during this tale, she is brought a chair, and considers it a peace offering.

Afterwards, she tries to object when Sandor is brought back to the dungeons along with Petyr. The lords tell here there is still much to consider, and that a young lady such as herself should not let herself be troubled by it. Myranda follows her out.

”Let me walk you to your chambers, my lady.”

”Please, Myranda, call me Sansa. Are we not friends, still?”

Randa smiles, and they walk along to Sansa’s chambers where they have food brought up so that they may speak privately. _Randa knew who I was from the start. Petyr did tell me she was clever_. 

”I thought Lothor was loyal to Petyr.” Sansa stretches in her chair, belly full and mind exhausted.

”Ser Lothor is a loyal man, yes,” Randa says, ”but he also cares about the truth. And, I think he knows that a common friend of ours would never forgive him if he stayed loyal to Littlefinger through all this.”

Sansa smiles. Ser Lothor’s infatuation with Mya Stone is well-known in the keep by now.

Randa continues. ”And he’s been well compensated, of course. Him and Maddy, your maid from the Eyrie, have both helped us with information. And regular drops of dreamwine in Petyr’s cup proved to be all it took for the man to loosen his tongue and become careless. Quite a lightweight, really.” Both women laugh. It all makes sense now. Petyr would have never let that part about Highgarden slip if he wasn’t under the influence of dreamwine.

”Do you think…” Sansa trails off. ”Do you think they’ll let Sandor go?”

Eyes full of pity meet hers. ”I don’t know, sweet Sansa. It’s unfortunate you should have gotten involved with someone so below your standing. The heart is a treacherous little beast.”

”Involved? I don’t-”

”There is no need to pretend, Sansa. Mya already told me that a former lover of yours was here for the tourney. When I saw how the Hound looked at you in Nestor’s solar, it wasn’t that hard to put the pieces together.”

”His name is _Sandor,”_ Sansa says, ”and we were not lovers. You know you shouldn’t listen to Mya’s stories.”

Randa only smiles.

—

”You’ve changed your hair.”

”Yes, my lord.”

”I don’t like it.”

Sansa reads stories to Lord Robert, to whom she must remain Alayne. No-one who wasn’t in Lord Nestor’s solar knows of her true identity yet, and can’t until Petyr’s sentence is passed. Sansa wouldn't mind being Alayne for a little while more, if it wasn’t for the looks she gets in the corridors. She knows those looks all too well. _Traitor_ , they say without words, and _prisoner_ and _pitiful_. But Sansa will endure. After all, she grew used to much worse treatment in King’s Landing.

Sweetrobin seems blissfully unaware of the political situation in the Gates of the Moon. He has his winged knights and his Alayne. He lets her tuck him in for the night, and she stays, above the covers, until he’s fallen asleep.

Sansa carefully closes the door to Robert’s chambers. She turns and almost walks straight into none other than Harry the Heir.

”Oh,” she says. Silence. ”Beg pardon, ser, I did not see you.”

”No doubt.” His smile should be handsome, but he stands so close that it can only be menacing. ”You’ve been flitting around all evening. Busy little thing, you are.”

”I’ll have you remember that I’m a _lady,_ ser, and you should address me as such. Be courteous enough and I might well forget our first encounter.” Sansa feels generous.

”A lady indeed. Say, how long until your marriage to the imp is annulled? We’ve quite a lot to plan. I imagine the wedding ought to be a bit grander now that you’re a highborn lady.”

”Ser?” _Does he think I’ll still marry him?_

”What? Lord Baelish did promise you to me.”

It hits her like a stone in the chest. Of course. A chance for the upjumped squire to grasp true power. Petyr and his slow poisoning of Ser Robert was Harry’s biggest hope of ever inheriting the Eyrie, and now…

”Petyr promised you a bastard. And I was never his to give away.”

”Oh?” Still that terrible smile plays over his features. ”That’s odd, seeing as how Lady Anya is certain we had an agreement. You’ll need the protection of the Vale, do you not?”

_Cleverer than he lets on, apparently_. Or, more likely, Lady Anya has fed him information. The North may be in disrepair at the moment, but for the son of a lesser house it is still a fine prize to gain by marriage.

He puts an unwelcome hand on her shoulder. ”I’ll still have you, Lady Sansa.”

She shudders involuntarily. _I’ll still have you_. The familiar words echo in her ears as Harry’s sandy hair turns golden in her eyes, his lips plumper, _wormy_ almost, blue eyes turn green. _No_. He is not that boy, he is not that vicious. But her hands shake all the same, and she  does not hear what excuse she mumbles before she turns to hurry down the corridor, away from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, and for your encouraging words!


	5. Chapter 5

Sansa looks around the bailey, clutching her hood against the wind. _They’re all here_ , she thinks. _Petyr invited them all to the tourney, and now they’ve come to watch his judgement_. The irony is not lost on many. That Littlefinger invited all his opposers thinking they would join him in his grasp for power, never even considering that not everyone plays his game. Sansa stands next to Lord Nestor and Lord Yohn, Sweetrobin sitting on a chair above them all on the stand, surrounded by his Winged Knights. He looks like something out of a song, a small boy with beautiful hair, clad in green and gold, tall men in shining armour standing ready to ward off any harm that might come to him. Sweetrobin quickly breaks the spell, however, by loudly demanding a sweetcake. Ever since Maester Colemon eased him off the toxic painkillers Petyr recommended, little Robert has grown a large appetite for anything sweet.

There is a moment of silence before Lord Robert once again demands someone fetch him a cake. Finally, confusion shining out of his features, Ben Coldwater extracts himself from the guard circle to go in search of what his lord demands.

_At least he is not demanding heads on a spike, or girls to be beaten_. 

Sansa’s attention is drawn to the entrance of the keep as drums begin to play. Lord Baelish is a small dot in the crowd, escorted by two knight guards. As they move closer, she has to use all her willpower not to look away. He has been beaten. The usually well-kept little beard is in disorder, and a week’s worth of stubble covers his jaw. His doublet is torn and filthy, and streaks of dirt mixed with blood cake his throat. When he passes her, she is prepared for the stench.

”Lord Petyr Baelish,” Lady Anya reads from a parchment, ”Lord of Harrenhal, Lord Paramount of the Trident, former Lord Protector of the Eyrie and the Vale of Arryn, you stand accused of treason. By murdering Lady Lysa of House Arryn, and plotting to murder her son, Lord Robert of House Arryn…”

Sansa can’t listen anymore, and so she stares up at Petyr. She is prepared for how hollow he looks. She is not prepared for how it affects her.

_Father_.

She shakes her head. No. This man would have used her in any way possible to achieve his goals. And yet when his eyes meet hers, there is doubt. _Did he truly treat me so badly? Does he truly deserve a fate such as this?_ The thoughts whirl around her head and there is no way she can make sense of the conflicting emotions they bring. These past few days have not been enough to process the speed at which change is happening. Alayne was safe here, in the Vale, but now Sansa must move. And so when Lady Anya asks if anyone would speak for Lord Baelish, the poor creature whose eyes are boring straight into her soul, Sansa stays silent.

Petyr Baelish is not spared.

It is not Sansa who swings the sword, but she does not look away. She does not faint this time, but to her shame she feels hot tears streaming down her cheeks. The head comes off so easily, tumbling to the ground along with years of carefully laid plans. Even as they are pulling him - _the body_ \- away from the stand, she cannot look away. It only takes one guard to do it. Petyr always was a slight man.

_Sandor is next,_ she thinks, ice forming in her stomach. And he is approaching fast, escorted by none other than Lothor Brune and Harrold Hardyng. Perhaps they were the only men large enough to be entrusted with him. Sandor it still taller than both of them, though. He is brought up on the bloodstained stand and left alone, bound in front of the crowd. Lady Anya steps up once more.

”Sandor Clegane,” she begins, ”formerly of the Kingsguard and recent heir to Clegane Keep. You are brought before us charged with serving the false king Joffrey Baratheon, and the treacherous Lannisters…”

Sansa tries to meet his eyes, but he is simply not there. Sandor Clegane’s grey eyes are glazed over and distant, and it pains her to watch.

”Is there anyone who would speak for this man?” Lady Anya scans the crowd with her sharp eyes.

”I will speak for him.” A stunned silence falls in the bailey. Sansa climbs up on the stand and lets her hood fall down, red hair tumbling down her shoulders. ”I, Sansa Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully, vouch for Sandor Clegane’s innocence. He served the Lannisters, yes, but so did Petyr Baelish, and it was not brought up as a charge against him. Sandor Clegane performed his duties as a member of the Kingsguard. Is that a crime?” Wide eyes stare up at her from the crowd. Lord Robert does not say a word. Perhaps he has been prepared for this.

”Lady Sansa,” Lord Nestor addresses her, ”testimonies of how the Kingsguard abused you in King’s Landing has reached our ears. You suffered greatly by the hands of your captors, and yet you would not hold it against this man?”

Lord Nestor already knows the answer to his question. _Is he aiding me?_ ”Sandor Clegane never hurt me, Lord Nestor. On the contrary, he did what he could to spare me.”

A shout rises from the crowd. ”He’s a _deserter!_ We all know he turned craven and ran from battle!” Ser Harrold’s face is red with anger, and Sansa cannot fathom what would cause him such distress. He has never met Sandor before in his life. 

”Oh?” Sansa raises an eyebrow. ”First he is accused of _serving_ the Lannisters, and now of betraying them? Which one is the crime here? I find it hard to keep up.”

”He’s a _savage killer,_ same as his monster brother.” Harry starts walking towards her, but before he reaches the stand, Ser Lothor puts a large hand on his shoulder. He tries to shrug it off. Without thinking, Sansa steps in front of Sandor.

”Is he, now? Tell me, how does a savage killer differ from a civilized one? Is it the method of killing? The choice of weapons? Or,” Sansa fixes Harry with her gaze, ”is it simply the banner he flies? In that case, I imagine there are as many savage killers as there are banners in the world.”

Harry is fuming. Behind Sansa, Lady Anya clears her throat. ”By permission from Lord Robert Arryn,” she nods courteously to the boy, who is preoccupied with licking his fingertips clean of honey from his cake, ”we, the Council of the Vale, formerly the Lords Declarant and now Lords Protectors of the Vale until Lord Robert comes of age, have come to a decision concerning the Hou- Sandor Clegane.”

Sansa holds her breath. For the first time since she climbed the stand, she risks a glance at Sandor’s face. He is _staring,_ eyes wide, straight at her. There is something in his face, streaking the dirt and blood on it. It’s… something. A wetness that is not blood.

Lady Anya continues. ”After hearing the testimonies of Lady Sansa Stark and Ser Lothor Brune, we hereby decree that he may be granted freedom-” Sansa’s heart is soaring ”-on one condition. To ensure his loyalty, he must take the vows of a Sworn Shield to a Lord, _today_. This Lord must be willing to accept his service, and will be kept responsible for him and any crimes he may commit.” Lady Anya smirks knowingly as she surveys the Lords in attendance. ”Is there any Lord here today who would take him?”

Sansa doesn’t hesitate. She steps forward. ”I will take him.”

A murmur goes through the crowd, some people outright laughing. Lady Anya scoffs. ”A _Lord,_ my lady, must take him. You may be a daughter of one, but I do not see you in command of any lands.”

Sansa straightens her back. ”You forget yourself, _my lady_. With my brothers dead, I am the heir to Winterfell, and Princess of the North. I will take him.”

Lady Anya turns to Lord Yohn, who only nods, a small smile playing on his lips. ”Very well. Have him pledge his vow.”

This is where Sansa’s courage falters. It is a well-known fact that Sandor Clegane has never taken vows, knightly or otherwise. She looks down at him where he kneels in front of her. His head is turned down and she can’t discern his reaction. _He won’t take vows. I’ve spoken for him in vain_.

”Sandor Clegane,” she says, and hears her voice carry, strong and unfamiliar in the bailey as she approaches him. Then, quietly, for his ears only, ”Sandor, please look at me.”

She reaches her hand down to catch his chin and bring it up towards her. Their eyes meet, and it is everything short of physically painful. His expression is strained, the burnt side of his mouth twitching. There is fear in his eyes, but she doesn’t know from what. She takes a deep breath.

”Will you take your vows as my sworn shield, here and now?”

He seems to struggle to swallow. There is an all-consuming cold growing in the pit of her stomach all while she carefully schools her features in anticipation of his refusal. She has almost given up on waiting when he responds.

”Aye,” he rasps, his voice oddly frail, ”I will.”

Sansa feels as if she’s moving through deep water as she positions herself so that the crowd can see both her and Sandor before her. Even kneeling, his face is almost at height with her chest.

”Lady Sansa,” he says, and it sounds odd to her ears, ”little bird. I offer you my service, such as it is. I would offer you my sword if the buggering guards here would have thought to bring it. I swear to shield you from harm, to keep your counsel, and to die for you, if that’s what you’ll have me do. I swear this,” and here he pauses, uncomfortable, ”by the old gods and the new.”

For several moments, Sansa is so relieved she can’t breathe. Seeing uncertainty start to cloud his features, she quickly collects herself.

”And I swear,” she answers, her voice ringing loud and clear, ”that you shall always have a place by my hearth and mead and meat at my table. I shall ask no service of you that would bring you dishonour. And I pledge to protect you with any power vested in me. I swear this, by the old gods and the new.” She holds out her hand to him. ”Arise.”

He stares at her hand, pale and cold in front of him, then looks down on his own large, dirty paw. With the same gentleness that he once wiped blood from her lip with, he takes her hand and stands up to tower before her. He stands with his burnt side to the spectators, and she fleetingly thinks of how odd they must look, together. The air is heavy with the crowd’s silence, and reluctantly, Sansa lets go of his hand. With a decisive step she stands in front of him, facing the crowd.

”Let it be known,” she declares, ”that Sandor Clegane has been found innocent of the charges against him. That he is no longer the Lannister’s Hound. No,” Sansa looks over her shoulder and locks eyes with Sandor, ”This man belongs to me.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken some liberties with Westerosi legal customs here, so this is more modeled after an old Icelandic Thing in that it is mostly about talking yourself out of a situation rather than actually proving anything, which I find endlessly amusing. I hope no-one minds :) Once again I had to split a chapter in two, so this is a bit shorter than anticipated. I think there will be one more chapter, plus an epilogue from Sandor's POV!  
> And thank you for reading! It is truly baffling to me that people actually read and appreciate this story, and very encouraging :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! (but there will be an epilogue...)

After Sansa has made sure Sandor is sent to be washed and properly clothed, she shuts herself into her chamber to allow herself a final indulgence in grief. Still, she can’t help but chastise herself for it. _He was never my true father_. And, _I’m a true lady again, I must act the part_.

Nella finds her face down on the bed, rigid, her breaths coming short and harsh, fists full of sheets.

”Sweet child, you must breathe. Here, your hair has gotten all tangled up.”

Warm fingers comb through Sansa’s tresses as her breathing gradually slows down. It’s a long while before her hands relax, but soon after, her back is no longer painfully arched and instead she curls up against her maid’s lap. Nella’s murmurs soothing words that Sansa can only just make out through the slowly abating panic in her head. Soon loud, broken sobs escape her throat.

”I- I didn’t even _like_ him,” she manages to say in between shattering sobs.

”I know, child.”

”It’s just me now,” she whispers. ”I’m alone again.”

”No, my lady, you are not alone. You have Lady Myranda. And I know it may not be much, but you have me, and that big scarred man that looks at you like you’re the Maiden herself.”

For some reason, this makes her cry harder.

”Shh. You’ll be all right, child. You’ll be all right.”

—

When Sansa emerges from her chambers, her eyes are no longer red and puffy. She wears a heavy gown of blue brocade that makes her Tully eyes sparkle, and Nella has insisted on leaving her hair down. Her auburn locks tumble down her back and shoulders, made to shine with lemon-and-jasmine scented oil. She casts a final glance over her shoulder at Nella, who nods reassuringly. Well out in the corridor, she jumps as she notices a shadow looming over her.

Sandor Clegane has been provided with new clothes. He wears no armor, but the sword strapped to his side gives his posture a balance that she hasn’t realized he’s been missing until now. He wears a sleeveless dark green wool tunic over a white shirt with full sleeves. Sansa has never seen him look so put-together. She does recognize the tunic, but that’s because it belongs to Ser Lothor.

”No longer in robes, I see.” It’s a pointless thing to say, but it’s all she’s got.

”It seemed about time. Never planned on dying on the Quiet Isle.”

_Where_ did _you plan on dying?_ His hair is still a little damp. She meets his eyes, and is uncomfortably reminded of their last private conversation. An unwelcome blush creeps across her cheeks. ”You look well. Better. I mean, you look good.”

He straightens his back and shifts his gaze to stare straight ahead. ”You too, little bird.”

”Thank you,” she says, unreasonably pleased.

Their walk to the Great Hall is silence. Sansa desperately searches her mind for something to say, but comes up either empty or improper. Just before they reach the hall, Sansa stops to take a deep breath. Behind her, Sandor clears his throat. She turns to face him.

”I…” he rasps, uncertain. ”What you did out there, little bird, it was brave. Not many would speak for an old scarred dog.”

She frowns. ”You shouldn’t speak of yourself like that.”

”Can’t a man speak how he likes of himself, now?”

”Fine. Then you shouldn’t speak of my sworn shield like that.” This causes a small smile to play on his lips. ”And,” she continues, ”if you hadn’t saved me during the bread riots, I wouldn’t have been alive to speak for you today. So really, you should be thanking yourself.” Not waiting to hear his reply, if he has one, she enters the hall.

There is, strictly speaking, no feast tonight, but with most of the tourney knights and their retinues still at the Gates of the Moon, the Great Hall is filled with people, music and food. A seat has been saved for Sansa at the high table, between Lord Nestor and Randa. Little Lord Robert has gone to bed early, it seems. Lord Nestor pulls out her chair and she sits down gingerly. Sandor makes to stand behind her, but she tells him not to be ridiculous, he needs to eat as well. He grudgingly goes to sit with the Brothers of the Faith, who seem to greet him warmly. _Never knew him to have friends before_. As soon as he’s finished, however, he returns to stand guard behind her.

”My lord,” Sansa addresses Nestor over dessert, ”I must thank you for your help at the trial today. You gave me a chance to declare his innocence.”

”It is no matter, my lady.” He smiles behind his large, grey beard. ”My daughter cares for you, and I trust her judgement.”

”And I am very lucky to call her my friend.” Sansa smiles at Randa, who gives her hand a small squeeze. ”You have both been so very kind to me through all this.”

”These are difficult times,” says Nestor. ”It is more important than ever for us to care for our friends and keep our alliances strong. Speaking of which, we need to find you better accommodations. Winter has only just begun, and Lady Stark cannot wait it out in such cramped chambers.”

”You are far too kind, my lord, and a very gracious host,” she says carefully. ”But I would not wish to intrude any further. There are still bannermen loyal to house Stark in the North. All I wish for is to reclaim my home. I want Winterfell back.”

Lord Nestor considers this a moment. ”I see.” He signals his cupbearer, who in turn signals the musicians, and as the music dies down, so does the chatter and laughter in the hall. Lord Nestor rises.

”Lords and ladies of the Vale,” his deep voice resonates through the hall, ”knights of the Vale. It has been brought to your attention that we house an honored guest here at the Gates, Lady Sansa Stark.” Necks crane beneath them to catch a glimpse of the last known Stark, lost and now found. ”Both our liege lords House Arryn and her house are tied to our common allies, House Tully. Neither Valemen nor Northmen hold any love for the Lannisters in King’s Landing. It is time we unite for a common cause!”

Murmurs of approval sweep across the hall, and Sansa holds her breath, wondering what this is leading up to.

”Lady Sansa.” Nestor turns to her, and so she rises from her chair. It seems the proper thing to do. ”When you return North to reclaim your home, whether it be a day or ten years from now, I offer you five hundred of my men to accompany you on your journey, and to aid you in your cause.”

Sansa does not hear the words of thanks she speaks. Her vision has turned strangely blurry, and she quickly wipes her eyes of the tears that threaten to spill down her cheeks. Before long, each and every Lord of the Council of the Vale have stood in front of her to offer swords to her cause. And, finally, Lady Anya Waynwood approaches with her ward Harry.

”My lady.” Lady Anya inclines her head. ”We once had an arrangement that you were to wed my ward, Ser Harrold Hardyng. Between us, we offer you two thousand swords as long as you stand by your word to-”

She does not have time to finish. Bronze Yohn Royce flies up from his seat, outraged.

”You didn’t want her as a bastard, but now that you know she’s highborn you’ll use extortion to claim her? You bring shame on us all!” He turns to Sansa. ”I deeply apologize for this slight, my lady. The Starks offered me and my son Waymar great hospitality once, and the Others take me if I’ll see it repaid with such insolence.”

Sansa could kiss him. In the wake of his booming voice, Lady Anya and Harry are left meek and ashamed. In the end, she gets a thousand swords from them, as well as their apologies.

Several more bannermen of the Vale offer swords to her. Ser Tillis will join her himself, to lead the two hundred Sistermen the Sunderlands offer. A tall, blonde knight approaches her, and she does not recognize him. She does, however, recognize his grey armor. It’s the mystery knight from the melee. It is not until the knight kneels in front of her that she realizes it’s a woman.

”My lady,” the strange tall woman says, ”I have but one sword to offer, but it is yours. My name is Brienne of Tarth, and I served as your lady mother’s sworn shield. I pledged a vow to her, to return her daughters to her, and it would be my honor to serve you in reclaiming your home.”

There are those who laugh at this warrior woman. Sansa does not. _Mother. Mother. Mother knew this woman. Mother sent her to me_. ”Arise, Lady Brienne. I watched you in the melee. I will rest easier at night, knowing such a great warrior protects me.”

The night draws on long before Sansa can excuse herself from the Hall. Standing up, she feels slightly dizzy from the wine she’s had. ”I need air,” she tells Sandor, and without a word, he follows behind her. He still walks with a slight limp, but he’s not at all as slow as she remembers him being when she first saw him days before. Not wanting to retire to her chambers just yet, she lets her feet take her out to the portico walk by the herb garden, the one that leads down to the baths. For the third time, she stands in the walkway alone with Sandor. The night is chilly but the walkway is lined with braziers that lend some warmth to her in her silk gown. She leans against railing and stares out at the snow-covered herb garden in silence. Some part of her regrets having to leave this soft featherbed of a winter behind, to journey into the harsh winds and biting ice of the North. But it is where she belongs, and her heart aches to wander the halls of her ancient family home again. Once, Sansa could not wait to grow up and be married off to some Southern Lord, but now, all she wants is the comforting heavy stone walls of Winterfell.

It is, to her surprise, Sandor who breaks the silence.

”So, little bird, when do we leave?” He has come up to stand beside her, leaned against the railing to her left, away from the brazier to her right.

”As soon as possible. A month, perhaps?” She looks up at him in the flickering light of the brazier. His hooked nose and angular features make a striking profile, even from his burned side. Some part of her wants to reach out, to touch his face and his long, dark hair. ”You do not mind going North? It’ll be a long winter. I can’t imagine many Southerners would jump at the opportunity to face it in the coldest place possible.”

He scoffs, but not maliciously. ”I don’t care if it’s bloody Skagos, little bird. If you want me there, I’ll go.” He fidgets with the wide hem of his sleeve. ”They’ll think you’re mad for bringing an old ugly dog, you know.”

”You’re not ugly,” she says before she can stop herself. He looks at her, surprised, but he doesn’t mock her. ”I know you don’t believe me,” she says, wine-brave, ”but I was telling the truth that night in my chambers. I’ve thought of you. Dreamt of you.” He says nothing. Some desperation makes her continue. ”I prayed for you, you know. During the Battle of the Blackwater. I prayed to the Mother to keep you safe. You were so angry all the time, back then. But when you came to my room that night, I never once thought you’d hurt me.”

”I would have hurt you.” He stubbornly keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead.

”But you didn’t. I trust you, Sandor, even though you don’t want me to. Please, just-”

”You shouldn’t talk like that, little bird.”

”Tell me to stop, and I’ll never bring it up again.”

He says nothing. Ever so gently, she reaches up to cup his chin in her hand and turn his face down towards her.

”Look me in the eye,” she says. ”Look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t thought of me as well.”

”There’s a long line of suitors for you in the hall,” he says, but he turns to her, puts his hands on her shoulders on top of the bruises he left there, almost a week ago.

”Is there?” She smiles and tilts her head. ”I hadn’t noticed.”

”I still frighten you, girl.”

_”Loud noises_ frighten me. And fire frightens you. It doesn’t mean anything.”

His hand is in her hair, stroking it, and suddenly she’s shy. Her gaze lowers, and there is a heat in her cheeks that she can’t blame on the wine.

”No courtesies for me now, little bird?” His voice sounds odd, and when she looks up at him she realizes he’s smiling. She can’t help but give a small smile in return. When he moves closer, one hand still in her hair and the other gripping her shoulder, her pulse quickens in an unbearable beat. _This is it_ , she thinks. _This is what the songs all told me about_. Some part of her mind tells her someone could come out at any moment, and what a scandal it would be, and how many bannermen would she lose without the prospect of marrying into her house, and… _I’ve waited so long. It’s time I get my song_.

His lips are softer than she would’ve imagined. Sansa’s heart stopped the moment his hot breath mingled with hers, and she is still lost when the hand that strokes her hair finds the back of her head to press her against him. His other hand squeezes down hard on the bruises he doesn’t know are there. There is pain, yes, but mingled with the kiss it turns exquisite, a brand new sensation that grows from her core to fill her body and mind until every fibre of her being seems to vibrate with it. Sansa feels holy. Sansa feels like she has been reduced to her basest way of being, and it is against everything she’s ever been taught. She loves it. _And this from naught but a kiss. I wonder what else he could make me feel._

”Sansa,” he says when they finally break away from each other. ”Fuck.”

She is panting, heat in her cheeks. ”Indeed.”

With a cold hand that almost doesn’t tremble, she strokes a lock of hair away from his face and tucks it behind his ear. For a short moment, he leans into her hand. A shiver that is more from the cold from anything else - or so she tells herself - runs through her body. Sandor rubs his hands up and down her upper arms. _Those hands have crushed bones_.

”We should get you inside before you freeze to death.”

”I suppose.” Sansa doesn’t want to leave this place, this moment. But she starts walking nonetheless. Sandor, of course, tries to fall in behind her. She grabs him gently by the collar and he lets her pull him to her side.

”Don’t you dare, Sandor Clegane. You’re not anyone’s dog anymore.”

She hears him sigh, but it’s more content than otherwise. ”As you wish.” He holds his arm out to her, and she stares at it for a moment, baffled. Ever so carefully, she takes it. _He’s changed so much_ , she thinks. _No. His rage is gentled, that’s all. No longer the half-wild, mean-tempered dog I knew in King’s Landing_. 

”You _are_ free, but you belong to me, you know.” The words are out of her mouth before she can make sense of them, but he only chuckles, a deep, comforting sound that she can feel vibrate from his chest.

”Aye,” he says, ”That I do, little bird.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please tell me what you think! I'm really not so sure about this chapter, as I'm not so used to writing romance.


	7. Epilogue: Sandor

Sandor is not a godly man.

The sept has never offered him any comfort, and no gods were there to protect him when his brother burned half his face off. No, Sandor is not a godly man, but when he saw lord after lady offer their allegiance to his little bird with fire in her hair again, he could have sworn every hymn he ever learned was playing. _His_ little bird. _Stupid old dog._ No, she is not his, and could never be. Still, when they sail for White Harbor with a fleet Sansa Stark never even has to ask for, he _does_ feel a strange surge of pride. As if he had any right to.

Reclaiming the North is not easy, no, but every man in Lady Stark’s command believes it is meant to be, and so it becomes truth. Stannis Baratheon is murdered by his Umber men when they learn of Sansa’s return. The Boltons are swiftly dealt with. She cries when she walks through the Kingsroad Gate. Tears run down her cheeks, and she looks around, completely silent, at the broken roofs and bodies of Bolton men that lie scattered across the courtyard of Winterfell. It is the strangest crying he has ever seen. In the battlefield he has sometimes seen men reduced to the small children they once were, red-faced and wailing. Sansa’s sorrow takes her somewhere else, somewhere detached from this world with no words to describe it.

That night they feast in the Great Hall of Winterfell, singing to their victory and their dead. He stands guard behind her, as usual. Sansa is constantly touching the surface of the massive oak table she sits by, as if making sure it is real. Sandor puts a hand on her shoulder.

”You’ve won, little bird.”

She turns her head to look up at him behind her. Her large blue eyes are wide and worried. ”If I’ve won, does that make me a monster?”

He frowns, puzzled. ”Why would you say that?”

”Life is not a song,” she mumbles as she turns back to look out across the hall. ”In real life, the monsters win.”

His heart could break with the realization that he was the one to put those ideas in her head. He wants to tell her no, her life can be an endless song from now on, she’ll find a pretty lordling that shits roses who will love her until his dying breath and they’ll have a dozen apple-cheeked children, but he doesn’t. He wants to keep her. He wants to keep her trust, her kisses, her head leaned against his shoulder as naturally as if it actually belonged there. Accidentally or otherwise, she’s twined herself into every aspect of his being.

His desire to keep her to himself notwithstanding, suitors line up soon after she’s reclaimed the North. She turns them all down. _”I want the North to myself for a while. I’ve waited so long.”_ To Sandor, she says she’ll die before she lets a strange man into her bed. Sandor promises, again, to kill anyone who would hurt her. She only smiles a sad smile and caresses his cheek. Sansa has not told him what she endured under Petyr. Perhaps someday she will.

What they prefer not to talk about is the Others lurking on the other side of the Wall, but they all know it’s only a matter of time until they’ll need to do _something_. What, precisely, is unclear. The Night’s Watch has procured some blades of dragonglass, but weapons alone does not win wars. 

The situation is taken out of their hands when the dragons come. Three of them, fierce beasts made for killing, and on the largest one sits a woman with white hair. Sandor hides in the crypts when they fly over. He is not a godly man, but in the dark of the crypts, he prays to whatever gods will listen to keep dragonfire from Winterfell. His little bird will not come with him. She climbs the outer wall and, he is told afterwards, screams to the heavens, to the small dot of a rider, to leave her lands. The dragons pass over Winterfell without incident. Soon ravens arrive from the Wall, bearing the news that everything beyond the Wall is burning, that the Others are defeated by dragonfire and tens of thousands of Wildlings have fled to the Gift. Somehow, Sansa has them swear to her, and those who don’t are sent to the Wall. The Others will return one winter, of that they are all certain.

When the dragons return, one of them carry a boy, half-starved and wild. Rickon Stark does not know his sister. Sansa doesn’t cry. She sits him down to teach him his letters. The warrior woman Brienne pries the spear from his hands and shows him how to swing a sword.

Once the Targaryen woman sits on the Iron Throne, Sansa is named Warden of the North. At first, Sandor thinks she will object and claim the North as her kingdom, but she acquiesces after long negotiations. The North is left with greater autonomy than it’s had since the Targaryen Conquest. He suspects the Queen agrees to Sansa’s demands mostly because the North is now almost as densely populated as the Reach and four times as large, and she does not wish for an invasion of wildling warriors and spearwives to storm the South.

Sandor has told Sansa of his time with the wolf-bitch, of course, and he sometimes wonders if that was a wise decision. Perhaps she was better off with no hope. Her cripple brother has not been seen, and more likely than not he is a pile of ashes north of the Wall.

It is when she receives a proposal from the recently widowed Randyll Tarly that Sansa loses her patience. She pens a scathing letter and sends out ravens to every corner of Westeros stating that she will continue to refuse every political proposal sent to her. The Queen herself replies that Sansa would do well to marry and strengthen her position. Through all this, Sandor stands silently by her side. It’s the girl’s maid that tells him of the Queen’s letter.

He finds Sansa under the heart tree, wrapped in a thick blue cloak that is half-caked with snow. Without a word, he sits down next to her and wraps his arms around her. She shudders with a sob she is too proud to allow a sound from.

”You’ll be all right, little bird.”

”N-no I w-won’t. I thought If I just got my h-home back I would be free, but it n-never ends. They all expect me to do things with no care for what I w-want.”

”What _do_ you want?” It is the first time he’s asked it. Fear of it all to end has stopped him, as if he asked her to define his part in her life he would somehow be right back where he started. And there are other fears, too. How would _he_ , the Lannister’s old dog, ever make her happy? He knows precious little of courting. And for most of his life, the only thing that kept him going was the dream of revenge, and now nothing of that remains. Keeping her safe is his new sole purpose, and that does not make for much of a person.

She looks up at him.

”I want _you._ ”

For several long moments, he has no words.

”Little bird, I… I’m no Knight of Flowers.”

She scoffs at him. She does that, now. ”After all this, do you truly believe I’d ever want that again?”

”I’m nothing. Too lowborn, too… I’m not…”

”Yes, yes, you lost your rage and you didn’t know what to replace it with. I’m telling you I can help. I’m not afraid.”

Sandor has never held any trust in the Fates, never believed in destiny. But this moment feels like it has been thousands of years in the making and it’s what he’s been working for all his life, every decision and misstep and meant-for-someone-else-luck has led him here.

He already belongs to her. It’s only proper she should belong to him, as well, she tells him.

Sandor is not a godly man, but weeks later, once more beneath the heart tree, the fear of the gods grips his soul with a vengeance. _Don’t let her down, now. Don’t fail the daughter of the North_. He’ll never tell her of the promise he makes to the heart tree.

Sansa keeps her name and inheritance. He cloaks her in a plain white cloak that to their wedding guests seem like nothing more than a practicality. It’s not. It was always more than just a cloak. Here, and all those years ago in the Capital.

The first time she lies bare beneath him, he freezes, stunned and overwhelmed. Glowing hair spills out across the sheets, a stark contrast to her creamy white skin. For several moments, he simply can’t decide where to begin. His calloused fingertips trace the line of her jaw, neck, breast, stomach. _All my life, I’ve been saving my worship for this_. And this time, she finally sings him the sweetest of songs.

It’s the morning after that he almost dies. He wakes up with his little bird in his arms and a knife pressed to his throat.

”I should have fucking killed you when I had the chance.”

The assassin’s voice wakes up Sansa, and she stares at the shadow that holds the knife. He tries to push her away.

”Sansa, _run._ ”

But she doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t. Instead, she sits up with the blanket wrapped around her and draws the assassin into a suffocating embrace. The knife drops from the assassin’s hand and narrowly misses Sandor’s throat when it falls.

_”Arya,”_ his wife says over and over again, crying, ”Arya, oh Arya, I’m so sorry. I love you. I’m sorry.”

_”Let me go!”_ The assassin struggles fruitlessly against the little bird’s fierce embrace. ”Let me kill him for you!”

”Kill him? Of course you won’t. I can’t have you kill my husband.” Sansa uses the same stern voice she uses when Rickon feeds his wolf from the table, and daintily wipes the tears from her eyes. ”Now let us get dressed and we’ll talk more over breakfast.”

The little she-wolf doesn’t like him. She never tries to, but she does learn to tolerate him. She is an angry, dangerous thing, but somehow Sansa manages to calm her down most of the time. ”It’s over,” he hears his wife whisper to the she-wolf once when he passes outside her chamber door, ”we don’t have to fight anymore.”

And they don’t. For the first time in years, there is peace in Westeros. Sandor spends his days training new guards and troops, overseeing the parts of Winterfell’s restoration that Sansa doesn’t directly oversee herself, and being, as odd as it seems to him, _happy_. He has a routine. He has the most beautiful wife in all the seven kingdoms and all the seven hells combined, and by some miracle she loves him back. Sometimes he will fall back into calling himself a dog, or ugly, or old, and she will look at him sharply over whatever she’s occupied with at the moment.

”You shouldn’t speak of my husband like that,” she’ll say, with such conviction he’ll be tempted to apologize. Whether she’s eating with him in the Great Hall, or sits poring over documents for the management of their estate, or writhes in pleasure beneath him in their bed, she is the brightest thing he’s seen all day. Sandor has a strange, cautious hope for the future. After all, winter is coming to an end, and the wolves are no longer scattered.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's that! Again, thank you all for reading, and for your lovely comments! Until next time :)

**Author's Note:**

> Soooooo... Here. Have my first fanfic. I'm very nervous about this whole thing, but I hope you enjoyed it! Please tell me what you think! This was supposed to be a oneshot, but it seems to have turned into two chapters and an epilogue. EDIT: Ok, so maybe five chapters.


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